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HERll 


PROSE 


CHEERYTREE'S 

AND  POETRY 


BY 

HEER  CHERRYTEEE 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

1889 


Copyright,  1889, 

BY 

JOHN   B.  ALDEN. 


PKEF  ACE. 


I  desire  to  call  the  attention  of  the  public,  to 
a  more  complete  collection  of  my  literary  effu- 
sions ;  time,  means  and  circumstances  are  neces- 
sarily adequate  for  masterly  accomplishments : 
prose  and  poetry  writing  is,  with  me,  and  per- 
haps always  will  be,  a  side  issue,  therefore  let  not 
the  reader  be  too  expectant  or  the  critic  too  se- 
vere. I  am  confident,  however,  that  some  of 
these  productions  are  worthy  of  a  perusal,  and 
firmly  believe  they  will  find  a  welcome  among 
my  friends,  which  will  more  than  compensate 
for  my  undertaking. 

Heer  Cheeryteee. 


I  believe  in  a  friendsliip  that  is  less  in  form 
and  more  in  truth,  and  therefore  dedicate  this 
humble  volume  to  him  who  either  amid  toil  or 
pleasure  has  proved  himself  my  friend, 
OLIVER   M.  AVING. 


CONTENTS. 


My  Album,           .         .         _         .         .  9 

Are  We  Pulling  Others  Down  ?         -         -         -  20 

Ships  that  Never  Sail,        -         -         -      .    -  21 

The  Public  Giver,   22 

The  Answered  Prayer,       .         -         .         .  23 

My  Mother's  Grave,      -         -         -         -         -  25 

The  Dying  Gull,   26 

More  Truth  than  Poetry,         -         -         -          -  27 

The  Beggar's  Vesper,        .         .         .         .  30 

Lines  Written  in  N.  Y,  City  upon  hearing  the  Chimes,  31 

Only  a  Brakeman,        -         -         -         -         -  33 

The  Moon  Beams  Forth  in  Grandeur,      -         -  34 

Lines  upon  Seeing  the  Picture  of  Napoleon,            -  35 

My  Invitation,        .         .         .         .         .  36 

The  Renegade,            -----  37 

Lines  Written  in  Union  Square  Park,  N.  Y.  City,  40 

To  a  Heliotrope,     -----  41 

The  Golden  Shell,        -----  41 

The  Rabbit  Hunter,          .         .         -         .  42 

The  Citadel,   43 

Wee  Jimmie,         -----  46 

Our  Village,  47 

She  Gave  Herself  Up,        -         -         -         -  49 

To  a  Teapot,   51 

Miss  Gossip,          -----  53 

The  Mill  on  the  Damn  Side,    -         ...  54 

A  New  Fowl-piece,           ....  55 

The  Escape,   56 

Lines  Written  on  the  Bea«.h  at  New  Bedford,     -  57 

The  Death  of  Theodore  Beane,          -         -         -  58 

Ben  and  Ma,           -         -         .          .         -  59 

.The  Broken  Vase,       -         -         -         -         -  60 


S  CONTENTS. 

The  Brook,   61 

Ode  to  a  Mosquito,      -         -         -         -         -  G2 

At  Newport  Cliffs,  .         .         .         .  g3 

A  Railroad  Crossing,    -         -         .         ^         -  G4 

Purgatory,  .         -         .         -         .  G5 

Cherry  Rot,   G6 

The  Times,  .         .         -         .         .  67 

Other  Days,   73 

The  Poor-house  took  his  Mother,  -         -         -  74 

The  City  Bank,   76 

I  was  a  Millionaire,  ...         -  77 

Welcome,   80 

Their  Courtship,   81 

Dying  Alone,     -         -         -         -         -         -  82 

A  Likelihood,        -----  83 

Rocks,  -         -         -         -         -         -  84 

A  Candidate,  -----  85 

Death,    86 

Orators,  via  Sore-heads,     -         -         -         -  86 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S  PROSE 
AND  POETRY. 


MY  ALBUM. 
I. 

There 's  an  album  on  my  table 

Filled  with  faces  young  and  old  ; — 

And  I  will  where  I  am  able 

Tell  you  whom  these  pages  hold. 

Here  it  is  unclasped  and  open 
To  a  face  so  calm  and  sweet ; — 

Of  one  who  has  gone  to  Heaven, 
And  'tis  her  I  hope  to  meet ! 

'Tis  the  picture  of  my  mother 

That  now  fills  my  eyes  with  tears — 

When  I  think  she's  gone  forever, 
Or  I  live  again  in  years. 

How  the  scenes  come  up  before  me 

As  I  look  upon  thy  face ; 
And  I  feel  this  truth  about  thee 

Kone  can  ever  fill  thy  place  1 


10 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Mother,  raay  tlij  spirit  guide  me 
In  the  right  with  faultless  aim. 

'Twas  the  great  good  God  who  called  thee, 
And  I  know  we'll  meet  again  ! 

11. 

Of  my  pictures  none  are  dearer 

Than  the  one  I  hold  to  view, 
While  I  turn  upon  another 

With  a  heart  both  firm  and  true  ; — 
'Tis  the  one  I  have  selected 

And  with  whom  I  weave  my  life, 
'Tis  the  one  whom  none  suspected 

I  would  make  my  wedded  wife. 

JSTow  I  dote  not  of  her  beauty 

Nor  of  figure  so  di\  ine — 
She  has  more  than  done  her  duty 

And  met  me  half  way  every  time  ; — 
If  'tis  style  and  handsome  creature 

That  you  want  in  life's  decline, 
You  will  find  you  lack  the  feature 

That  has  made  our  home  sublime. 

For  a  life  of  peace  and  quiet 

In  our  humble  little  home, 
Is  the  highest  in  our  diet 

And  an  aiming  all  our  own  ; — 
For  the  flash  and  guilt  of  fashion 

But  disturb  the  peaceful  tide. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


'Tis  an  optical  delusion 

Going  hand  and  hand  with  pride. 

Ah  !  The  many  bright  to-morrows 

AVe  have  drawn  at  close  of  day ; — 
Aye  !  the  many  bitter  sorrows 

We  have  turned  the  other  way  ! — 
May  the  swift  approaching  future 

Still  sustain  our  common  joy, 
And  the  wish  of  this  dear  creature 

With  a  darling  little  boy. 

III. 

This  photo  of  mine 
Comes  next  in  my  rhyme 

And  recalls  the  far  away  days  : — 
When  I  Avent  with  "  Flo," 
Where  pictures  were  low, 

And  found  we  had  double  to  pay. 

We  sat  for  the  man. 

In  front  of  the  cam, 
And  looked  at  the  dame  with  the  watch 

The  picture  was  made 

Behind  a  green  shade 
And  my  folks  said  the  man  was  a  botch. 

Dad  said  it  was  off. 
And  Granny  would  cough 
When  told  of  the  artist  so  great ; — 


12  UERR  CHERRYTREE'S 

For  "  Flo  "  in  lier  stays 
Tried  looking  both  ways 
While  I  kept  my  gazing  too  straight. 

'Tis  "  Flo  "  that  I  praise, 

And  not  the  bad  ways 
That  time  in  its  fullness  may  bring ; — 

'Tis  easy  to  fall 

And  common  to  all, 
Then  look  out  before  you  begin. 

These  days  now  are  fled 
Poor  "  Flo    she  is  dead  ! 

And  sleeps  with  her  burden  of  shame, 
Where  the  tall  wavy  grass, 
Nodding  low  as  we  pass, 

Just  covers  the  rest  of  her  name. 

IV.* 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
All  day  in  thy  cobbler's  shop ; — 

Peg  !  Peg  I  Peg  ! 
Some  day  thy  labor  will  stop. 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
Thou  must  send  thy  boys  to  school ; — 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
But  stick  to  thy  lowly  stool. 


*My  Father. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
With  heart  both  cheery  and  gay 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
Is  now  the  tune  of  thy  lay. 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
As  the  hours  roll  swiftly  past ; — 

Peg!  Peg!  Peg! 
But  think  of  the  gifts  thou  hast. 

Sing  !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 
All  day  in  thy  cobbler's  shop  ; — 

Sing !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 
Some  day  thy  hanmier  will  stop. 

Sing  !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 
With  heart  both  cheery  and  gay 
Sino^ !  Sinof !  Sino; ! 

O  O  C5 

The  songs  for  thy  brighter  day. 

Sing  !  Sing  I  Sing  ! 
All  day  in  thy  humble  sphere  ; — 

Sing  !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 
The  morn  of  the  night  is  near. 

Sing  !  Sing  !  Sing ! 
All  day  on  thy  lowly  stool ; — 

Sing  !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 
The  truth  of  thy  life  shall  rule. 


14 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


V. 

I'll  now  introduce, 

Miss  Silly  Profuse 
With  her  "  Langtry  "  bangs  and  freckles ; — 

Who  married  in  haste, 

Tiie  man  of  her  taste 
Whom  she  thought  had  plenty  of  shekels. 

He  likewise  for  cents, 

Made  use  of  his  sense, 
And  married  Miss  Silly  for  mone}^ ; — 

They  lived  just  a  year. 

With  honeymoon  clear. 
When  things  began  to  look  funny. 

In  comfortable  ways. 

They  passed  many  days 
Nor  thought  of  the  money  going ; — 

They  saw  not  the  bend. 

But  rushed  to  the  end 
Like  a  river  over-flowing. 

It  came  out  at  last. 

By  living  too  fast, 
A  dearth  of  the  legal-tender ; — 

He  said  he  was  pressed. 

And  looked  much  distressed 
When  she  couldn't  think  of  a  lender. 

She  spoke  of  an  aunt. 
Who  owned  a  rich  plant, 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


15 


And  got  her  to  mortgage  lier  place ; — 
She  took  to  liis  schemes, 
Provided  him  means, 

And  he  skipped  witliont  leaving  a  trace. 

And  over  tlie  way, 

I  saw  her  to-day, 
As  she  answered  a  call  at  the  door  ; — 

A  maid  and  a  cook, 

To  the  man  she  shook 
For  the  one  who  had  driven  her  poor. 


Sage,  I  a  poor  and  studious  recluse. 

Do  here  invoke  the  presence  of  the  muse, 
And  vie  to  thee  my  humbly  metered  strain, 

The  least  of  all  in  thy  memorial  train  ; — 
Should  insignificance  share  with 'my  verse. 

My  skill  but  fails  to  cope  my  heart's  reverse  ; 
But  should,  though  indistinct,  some  kindly  word 

Scarce  mention  what  thou  hast  already  heard, 
Perceive  that  I  have  thanked  the  Whittier 

For  what  the  world  hath  called  the  seer. 
And  though  thy  harp  is  stayed  by  weaker  grasp, 

Tliy  songs  now  teach  the  art  is  not  in  clasp  ; 
But  that  it  is  of  pure  celestial  fire. 

That  fills  thy  heart  and  vibrates  from  thy  lyre. 
Sing  on  !  O,  bard  !  in  thy  melodious  way. 

To  be  original  is  thine  every  lay. 


16 


HERR  CHERRVTREE'S 


TII. 

Dr.  G.  Felix  Matthes,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  re- 
spected physicians  of  New  Bedford,  died  at  his  home  Sun- 
day after  a  protracted  illness. — Boston  Journal. 

Old  friend!  tliou  tried  and  trusted  one, 
In  3'oiitliful  days  I  knew  tliee  well ; — 

Familiar  face  when  ills  begun. 
To  thee  I  tend  the  last  farewell ! 

Though  many  pains  thou  hast  deceived, 
The  great  physician  knew  tliy  cure  ; 

And  though  by  death  alone  relieved. 
Thy  skillful  worth  will  long  endure. 

Fulfillment  this,  thy  final  "  call," 

"  Prescription  "  we  in  time  receive  ; — 

With  restoration  for  us  all 

Who  this  physician  do  believe. 

The  humble  mound  !  the  peaceful  home  ! 

Will  give  her  tired  children  rest ; — 
This  mound  is  thine  !  this  hearth  thine  own, 

A  home  for  all  is  surely  blest. 

And  far  beyond  this  restful  spot 

Where  care  and  misery  lose  their  way  ; — 
I  hear  this  truth  by  spirits  wrought. 
The  Doctor's  in,"  they  seem  to  say. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


VIII. 

Now  we  have  an  old  tin-peddler, 
With  his  cry  of    any  rags  ?  " — 

Out  in  every  kind  of  weather 
And  he  drives  the  worst  of  nags. 

He  will  take  the  rags  and  bottles 
That  you're  tired  of  seeing  round  ; — 

And  he'll  save  the  broken  stopples 
They  will  help  to  make  a  pound. 

He  will  buy  those  old  back  numbers, 
x\nd  at  leisure  look  them  through  ; — 

At  your  bock-shelf  oft  he  plunders, 
He's  an  antiquarian,  too. 

He  can  use  the  old  tin-kettle 

That  for  years  you've  thrown  away  ;— 
He  will  save  the  bits  of  metal. 

And  you'll  get  them  back  some  day. 

Some  new  piece  of  tin  he'll  barter 
When  you've  tilled  liis  cart  with  rags 

And  with  all  his  noisy  clatter, 
Still  I  hear  the  cry  of  "  rags." 

Though  his  clothes  are  not  in  fashion, 
And  he  drives  the  worst  of  nags. 

Still  he  owns  a  princely  mansion 
That  he  built  from  worthless  rags. 


18 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


IX.  ^ 

This  lady  of  style, 

Suggests  quite  a  smile 
As  I  look  at  her  picture  here ; — 

For  she  lost  a  nice  brooch, 

While  in  her  barouche 
That  glistened  with  diamonds  dear. 

She  looked  everywhere, 

But  saw  not  its  glare, 
And  the  gem  could  nowhere  be  found ; — 

Though  given  as  lost, 

She  felt  not  its  cost, 
For  her  wealth  had  never  known  bound. 

And  all  winter  long. 

It  was  passed  by  a  throng, 

While  yet  in  the  gutter  it  lay  ; — 
But  one  lucky  night, 
It  chanced  to  show  bright. 

And  was  seen  by  a  man  old  and  gray. 

His  thoughts  were  serene. 

And  he  eyed  it  keen. 
When  told  of  its  value  so  high  ; — 

But  heard  who  had  lost, 

A  gem  of  rare  cost. 
And  took  it  to  owner  near  by. 


*  Lady  Gaul. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


19 


He  stood  at  the  door, 

While  maid  did  ignore 
His  clothes  that  were  seemingly  bare  ; — 

But  the  lady  came, 

With  her  airy  train, 
And  accepted  the  gems  so  rare. 

She  bowed  with  a  smile, 

In  her  queenly  style, 
And  told  him  to  wait  in  the  hall ; — 

He  is  waiting  yet, 

A  reward  to  get, 
From  lady  with  millions  of  gall. 


X. 

Here  I  reach  my  album's  ending 
With  a  country  parson's  face  ; — 

And  far  better  than  his  preaching 
Was  the  time  for  saying  grace 

And  for  fear  /  may  be  tiring 
All  the  patience  you  can  boast, 

I  will  close  my  picture  rhyming, 
And  now  imitate  my  host. 

Header,  seek  the  poet's  treasure. 
In  the  throbbings  of  thy  heart ; — 

Value  not  his  meagre  measure, 
'Tis  the  wardrobe  of  the  art. 


20 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


If  you'v^e  felt  a  moment's  pleasure. 
In  the  reading  of  liis  rhyme, 

You  have  found  the  truthful  measure, 
And  your  soul  will  swell  the  chime. 


ARE  WE  PULLING  OTHERS  DOWN  ? 

In  this  world  of  fleeting  chances, 

Where  we  all  desire  renown, 
Do  we  thrive  by  mean  advances, 

Are  we  pulling  others  down  ? 

Did  you  gain  your  place  by  merit, 

Have  you  worked  on  honest  ground  ; — 

Unassuming  is  the  ferret, 

Are  you  ])ulling  others  down  ? 

Are  you  sure  you  were  elected, 
Do  you  own  the  envied  crown  ; — 

Have  you  craft  and  fraud  rejected, 
Are  you  pulling  others  down  ? 

Did  you  win  your  love  by  fairness, 
Was  your  suit  with  truth  profound  ; — 

Have  you  left  no  heart  in  sadness, 
Are  you  pulling  others  down  ? 

In  this  world  so  great  with  pleasure, 
Are  you  spreading  cares  around  ; — 

Have  you  crushed  some  struggling  creature, 
Are  you  pulling  others  down  ? 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


21 


Have  you  felt  tlie  pangs  of  hunger, 
Do  you  look  for  true  renown  ? 

Kise  by  liek)ing  one  anotlier, 
Love  can  never  pull  you  down. 

Lift  the  fallen,  soothe  the  wretched  ! 

Let  your  life  with  good  abound  ; — 
All  are  great  with  this  respected, 

'None  shall  rise  by  pulling  down  ! 


SHIPS  THAT  NEVER  SAIL. 

In  my  hours  of  needed  leisure. 
Sad  with  life  that  seems  to  slave, 

Ethereal  tends  my  pleasure 

Though  my  fetters  bid  me  stay  ! 

Thoughts  alike  are  going,  coming, 
Building  ships  that  never  sail  1 

Coursing  rivers  never  flowing. 
Making  time  an  idle  tale  ! 

Though  vain  are  all  my  fancies 
Scarcely  uttered  into  thought ; — 

Yet  the  beauty  of  a  flower 
Is  a  painted  daub  on  cloth. 

Softly,  then,  with  your  reflection. 
On  this  poorly  metered  line  ; — 

'Tis  a  chord  of  my  affection 
Slowly  coming  into  time  ! 


22 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


God  may  make  and  rnle  the  ocean, 
Man,  the  ships  that  he  can  scale ; — 

But  forever  my  creation 
Be  the  ships  that  never  saiL 

THE  PUBLIC  GIVER. 

I  am  a  great  public  giver, 

On  the  European  plan. 
That  is,  the  gracious  receiv^er 

Must  say  /am  the  man  ! 

Now,  in  the  city  of  W  r, 

To  the  cream  of  tlie  town, 

If  I  am  a  fair  reader. 

He  gave  a  million  down  ! 

For  the  handsomest  college 
That  the  money  could  build. 

For  the  advancement  of  knowledge 
To  the  very  well  filled  ! 

But  not  for  the  poor  and  studious, 
Who  are  without  the  means. 

But  for  the  rich  and  luxurious 
Who  wallow  in  gleams. 

For  the  poor  can  never  enter 
That  great  bronzen  door ! 

It  is  only  for  the  scholar 
With  his  volumes  of  lore. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


23 


And  the  name  of  the  giver 
Will  be  chiseled  in  stone  ! 

As  a  fitting  reminder 
And  for  the  deed  atone. 

The  poor  are  still  hungry  ! 

The  sick  are  in  bed  ! 
But  heed  not  the  needy 

And  feed  the  well  fed  ! 

And  in  your  donation 

If  to  make  a  big  spread, 
A  college  is  the  notion 

For  it  stands  when  you're  dead  ! 


THE  ANSWERED  PRAYER. 

I  will  ask  you  to  go  with  me  up  three  flights 
of  stairs ; — they  are  steep,  rickety,  and  it  seems 
a  long  way  up,  but  we  soon  get  to  the  top,  and  in 
doing  so  we  will  enter  a  small  attic  chamber.  The 
moon  has  arrived  just  ahead  of  us,  and  its  silvery 
beams  come  pouring  in  at  the  shattered  window. 
In  one  corner  of  the  room  a  youth  is  lying, 
hidden  partially  from  view  by  a  few  ragged 
coverings ; — at  the  other  end  of  the  room  sits  a 
poor  way-worn  looking  creature,  her  eyes  red 
with  weeping  and  fixed  upon  the  feeble  blaze  of 
a  few  dymg  embers,  and  this  is  what  she  says : — 


24 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


"  My  prayer  is  answered  !  that  eternal  prayer 
has  been  that  I  niight  see  my  darling  boy  close 
his  eyes  in  death  ere  it  stung  this  withered  frame ; 
— and  when  death  shall-  force  its  way  upon  this 
lingering  life  I  can  welcome  it  in  peace,  thinking 
at  my  dying  hour  that  I  have  not  left  an  idiot  to 
face  this  cruel,  heartless  world,  and  I  shall  meet 
my  little  family  at  the  fireside  of  an  eternal 
home. 

"  How  well  do  I  remember  the  day  when  all 
my  trials  vanished,  and  Heaven  seemed  to  smile 
upon  my  little  home ;  when  I  was  thanking  God 
for  his  most  bountiful  gifts,  the  door  of  this 
room  slowly  opened  and  strange  men  entered, 
bearing  in  their  arms  my  little  boy!  They  soothed 
my  sobs  by  telling  me  he  could  not  live,  that  he 
had  been  hit  by  a  stone  which  would  make  an 
idiot  of  him — a  helpless  harden  to  a  poverty- 
stricken  mother !  He  brought  no  words  of 
comfort  to  my  care-worn  head,  he  gave  no  help- 
ing hand  to  my  dreary  w^ork,  yet  I  wdll  miss 
him  ; — he  was  my  boy !  and  I  will  miss  him 
when  the  village  bells  toll  the  Sabbath  hour,  as 
he  took  his  little  Bible  in  his  hand,  and  his 
staggering  steps  led  him  to  the  neighboring 
church.  There  cronched  in  some  far-off  corner  he 
would  sit  and  look  with  wonder  npon  its  golden 
edges ;  and  when  the  service  was  ended  he  would 
come  running  down  the  lane  in  his  foolish  glee. 
— His  earthly  life  is  past,  and  now  perhaps  each 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


25 


truth  bound  beneath  those  goIBen  edges  moment- 
ly reveals  itself  to  a  happy  sinless  mind. 

"And  when  the  cares  of  this  world  shall  crowd 
about  my  weary  head,  and  dark  clouds  o'er- 
shadow  my  life,  one  thought  will  linger  with  me 
still,  to  break  the  threatening  mist ;  as  he  lay 
dying  on  this  damp,  cold  floor,  and  I  held  his 
aching  head,  though  it  were  forbidden  him  to 
speak  with  sense,  yet  his  face  bore  a  calm  and 
thankful  smile ;  and  as  I  have  often  beckoned  to 
him  at  the  twilight  hour,  may  he  soon  beckon  to 
me  w^hen  I  shall  turn  the  last  bend  in  the  road 
of  life. — T,  the  only  mourner,  will  follow  the 
pauper's  hearse  as  it  wends  its  way  slowly  to  the 
churcliyard,  where  flow^ers  bloom  and  fade,  where 
the  crickets  chirp  their  lonely  vespers." 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE 

I  stood  beside  the  place  to-day 

And  looked  upon  the  grass-grown  mound, 
Wherein  my  dear  good  mother  lay, 

At  rest  in  death,  asleep  profound  ! 

I  lingered  long  beside  the  grave. 

The  essential  spot,  the  chiseled  stone  ; — 

With  heavy  heart  respectfully  paid, 
I  left  as  I  had  come,  alone  ! 


26 


HERR  CHERRYIREKS 


But  with  eacli  step  there  seemed  to  come, 
A  spirit  quite  along  the  street ; — 

That  brought  to  mind  my  dear  old  liome, 
Now  gone  !  forever  obsolete  ! 

I  tried  mj  mind  to  occupy, 

With  thoughts  of  far  diiSerent  mood ; — 
But  the  spirit  seemed  forever  by, 

Hasten  or  linger  as  I  would. 

I  leaned  against  the  old  stone  wall, 
And  brushed  the  tell-tale  tears  away, 

Filled  with  a  more  fervent  resolve 
That  I  would  do  her  will  next  day. 

And  the  haunt  seemed  to  have  left  me. 
As  I  journeyed  my  way  along ; — 

New  thoughts  now  came  up  before  me 
And  gave  the  finish  to  my  song. 


THE  DYING  GULL. 

Oft  hast  thou  soared  in  dizzy  flight. 
But  now  thy  course  deludes  thy  sight ; — 
And  boldly  plunged  into  the  main 
That  chills  thy  heart,  that  yields  the  pain. 
Poor  bird  I  kind  death  hath  hushed  thine  ear 
To  those  who  know  thou  art  so  dear  ; — 
Who  from  the  cliff,  that  fronts  the  sea. 
Call,  call,  in  vain,  in  vain  for  thee  ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


27 


And  now,  thy  mate  moves  o'er  thy  head 
To  turn  in  swiftness  from  the  dead  ; — 
For  deatli's  last  sleep  hath  closed  thine  eye, 
And  the  great  waves  that  pass  thee  by 
Murmur  a  sad  dirge  on  the  way, 
For  a  spirit  hath  flown  away. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY. 

Scene  : — The  gateway  of  Heaven  ; — the  guard  arousing 
from  sleep. 

TJie  Guard: 
Ileydaj  !  no  one  here  !  incomparable  ! 
Never  before  has  such  occurred  with  me ; 
^lethinks  the  fair  Mors  has  been  negligent, 
Or,  some,  perhaps,  have  passed  unobserved.  It 
Is  true  I  slept  soundly  ;  and  yet,  the  jar 
Of  the  gate  usually  awakens 
Me  :  I'll  see.  Ah  !  who's  that  ?    His  maneuvers 
Are  unfamiliar.   [Beckons  to  someone  on  the  in- 
side.']   Hither  !  with  thyself  ! 

Enter  John  Calvin  through  the  gate. 
I  would  see  thy  pass  ! 

John  Calvin : 

I  am  without  such. 
I  neglected  to  obtain  one  upon 
My  arrival. 

Tlie  Guard: 

Sneaking  it,  hey  ? 


28 


HEER  CHERRYTREKS 


John  Calvin : 
Sir?  I 

Found  tliee  asleep  wlien  I  came,  and  seeming 
So  weary,  that  I  would  have  awakened 
Thee  against  my  own  conscience  ;  and  thinking 
That  I  should  meet  with  some  who  knew  me,  I 
Entered  to  find  every  thing  very  strange  ! 
2'tie  Guard  : 

Truly  !  who  art  thou,  that  thou  sliould'st  have  the 
Audacity  to  take  such  upon  thyself  ? 
This  is  the  gate  of  Heaven  ! 

John  Calvin : 
I  am  John 

Calvin  ; — more,  lie  who  has  serviced  life  for 
The  master  ;  I  am  the  founder  of  the 
Baptist  faith ! 

The  Guard: 
Enter,  pass  upon  the  left, 
This  will  admit  thee  to  thy  abiding. 

[After  giving  check,  J.  C.  passes  through  gate. 
Methinks  that  fellow  must  have  scaled  the  wall, 
I  perceived  a  tear  upon  his  breeches. 
Ah  !  why  here,  gospel  monger  ? 
Enter  Mr.  Illhumored,  with  Bible  under  his  arm,  who 
meekly  discloses  himself. 

Mr.  Illhumored: 

.     Yerily  ! 
I  am  a  preacher  of  the  blessed  word, 
I  have  attended  church  since  tlie  first  day 
I  adorned  short  clothes ;  I  have  with  me  praise- 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


29 


Wortbj^  remarks  of  my  ability 
To  fill  the  pastorate  of  the  Methodist 
Creed  ;  I  have  nightly  prayed  for  the  sceptic, 
The  heathen,  and  have  visited  sisters 
Of  niy  flock  when  ill  inclined  ;  I 
Am  very  amiable,  although  my 
Name  bespeaks  the  reverse  ;  I  plead  therefore  ! 
The  Guard: 

Have  done  !  prattler  !  and  pass  upon  the  right ; 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  domicile 

You  will  perceive  the  name  signifying 

Thy  sect ;  this  check  will  admit  thee  ;  hold  no 

Conversation  with  those  whom  you  may  meet 

On  the  way,  for  they  are  members  of  the 

Jniy  and  are  now  out  on  a  case.  Oli ! 

[Exit  Mr.  Illhumorcd. 
Dear  !  I  am  sick  of  this  business  ;  I  have 
Grown  poor  since  I  have  held  the  position ; — 
Spiritual  food  may  be  a  healthy 
Diet,  but  never  sates  my  appetite. 

[Singing  within. 
There !  he  is  welcome  on  the  beautiful 
Shore.  Ah !  that  confounded  hymn  has  duped 
me 

Of  more  rest  than  it  has  the  Devil  of 
Souls :  Ha ! 

Enter  a  poor  trembling  Indian. 
What  unsightly  thing  is  this  ?  so 
Trembling !  who  art  thou  and  what  hast  thou 
done 


30  HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 

Tliat  t/iou  sliould'st  look  for  entrance  here  ?  what 
thi/ 

Creed  ?  have  out  thv  say  ! 

The  Indian : 

I  liave  done  nothing  ! 
I  liave  no  creed  !    I  am  uncivilized  ! 
Untaught !  wild  !    I  am  an  Indian  ! 
Yet,  I  believe  in  tlie  "  Great  Spirit." 

The  Guard: 

Get 

Thee  in  !  and  where  tliou  art  disposed  to  go, 
So  goest  tliou ;  Heaven  is  wide  to  thee. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  VESPER. 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  snn  were  falling  in 
tlie  attic  of  a  nearly  deserted  dwelling ;  an  old 
man  is  sitting  by  tlie  window  looking  out  npon 
the  market  place.  I  cannot  look  upon  iiis 
withered  frame  and  whitened  hair,  without 
thinking  that  his  life,  with  the  sun,  is  setting, 
and  now  its  rays  are  faintly  glimmering.  A 
clumsy  tread  now  falls  upon  the  hollow-sound- 
ing stairs,  a  smile  flits  across  the  old  man's  face, 
and  his  eyes,  though  dimmed  with  age,  sparkle 
in  youthful  glow.  The  door  opens  and  a  little 
cripple  hobbles  into  the  room;  her  face  is  familiar 
for  I  have  seen  her  plodding  her  way  home  from 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


31 


school,  never  joining  in  tlie  sports  of  her  play- 
mutes. 

The  vesper  bells  had  now  commenced  their 
evening  chimes,  and  these  children,  one  a  child 
with  God,  the  other  with  man,  were  listening  to 
their  evening  hymns: — "  My  child  !  for  us  the 
vesper  bells  have  chimed  their  evening  hymns, 
and  this  pleasant  silence  that  steals  upon  us  with 
the  shadows  of  the  night  is  our  silent  prayer ! 
let  us,  as  they  within  the  distant  church,  bow  in 
silent  reverence  to  One  Divine." 

And  the  little  cripple  knelt  upon  the  floor ; 
her  pale  features  raised  toward  the  ceiling,  with 
her  hands  fervently  clasped,  gave  her  the  aspect 
of  an  angel ; — as  the  western  hills  glowed  in  their 
sunlit  garb,  so  her  thoughts  glowed  in  the  in- 
visible garb  of  happiness.  The  old  man  awoke 
from  his  dreaming  thoughts  to  look  with  pleas- 
ure upon  the  little  wayfarer  that  knelt  beside 
him  ; — but  now,  the  curtain  of  night  has  shielded 
them  from  our  view,  and  casts  from  its  folds  of 
darkness  the  needful  sleep. 


LINES. 

Written  in  New  York  City,  Sunday  evening,  April  14th. 
1878,  upon  hearing  the  chime-bells. 

I  sit  by  my  window  and  listen. 
To  the  sweetly  chiming  bells  j 


32 


HERE  CHERRYTREKS 


And  their  melody  seems  to  christen 
Mj  soul  with  wondrous  spells. 

And  now  I  gaze  upon  the  moonlight, 
As  it  tills  the  street  below  ; — 

Mirroring  fair  and  happy  faces 
And  many  full  sad  with  woe. 

For  now,  I  see  a  pleading  vagrant. 
Who  vainly  asks  for  bread — 

As  she  totters  along  the  pavement 
Wishing !  wishing  !  to  be  dead. 

Oh !  chimes,  sweet  with  music  to  my  ear, 
Move  her  to  better  things  below  ; — 

And  teach  as  well  the  mighty  million 
Good  and  better  deeds  to  show. 


ONLY  A  BRAKEMAN. 

These  are  words  we  hear  every  day 
As  we  pass  the  crossing  gate. 

Only  a  brakeman  over  the  way. 
Killed  by  the  down-coming  freight. 

Only  a  brakeman,  that  is  all ! 

Lying  dead  on  our  coal-house  floor  ;  — 
In  answer  to  the  whistle's  call 

A  member  of  the  down  brakes  corps ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


33 


Only  a  coroner,  that  is  all  ! 

Attending  now  the  final  rites  ; — 
Only  a  brakenian.  that  is  all ! 

That  he  in  his  diary  writes. 

Only  a  home,  forever  gone  ! 

Only  a  face,  forever  sad  ! 
This  is  the  railroad's  daily  song 

As  they  wave  their  blood-colored  flag. 

Only  a  stockholder,  that  is  all ! 

Counting  now  his  worldly  gains — 
Who  reads  not  of  the  brakeman's  fall ! 

Nor  feels  his  terrible  pains. 

Only  a  company,  getting  rich  ! 

In  an  undertaker's  style, 
With  a  life  for  every  switch 

And  funeral  for  every  mile  ! 

Only  a  God,  that  is  all ! 

President  of  the  finest  line — 
Where  none  smash  up,  nor  brakeman  fall^ 

And  they  make  their  regular  time. 

Only  justice,  that  is  all ! 

Final  statement  of  railroad  gains, 
When  dividends  take  the  fall 

And  stock-holders  divide  the  pains. 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


"  When  Butler,  needy  wretch,  was  yet  alive 
No  generous  patron  would  a  dinner  give. 
See  him  resolved  to  clay  and  turned  to  dust 
Presented  with  a  monumental  bust ! 
The  Poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown. 
He  asked  for  bread  and  he  received  a  stone." 

The  moon  beams  forth  in  grandeur, 

As  I  in  my  cliamber  sit ; — 
And  night  is  bathed  in  briglitness 

While  my  humble  room  is  lit. 

Tlie  world's  abed  and  sleeping 

And  the  midnight  guard  moves  on  ; — 
While  I  my  vigil  keeping 

With  the  old  rejected  song ! 

For  poets  live  and  vanquish 
Like  the  shadows  of  a  night ; — 

They  sing,  and  starve,  and  languish. 
While  the  world  is  ever  bright. 

An  attic  and  a  rag-heap 

Tells  where  they  sung  and  died  ; — 
And  Muses  paid  their  visits 

Where  cities  point  with  pride !  . 

And  this  is  true  distinction, 

And  still  the  ready  fate  ; — 
For  Muses  court  starvation 

While  fools  grow  fat  with  state. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


35 


LINES. 

Written  upon  looking  at  the  picture  of  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. 

Alone  in  tlioiiglit  and  meditation, 
Brooding  over  tlie  wasted  past, 

Hegretting  all  my  hasty  actions, 
Fromising  it  will  be  the  last. 

Haunted  by  a  reproachful  vision. 
Fearful  to-morrow  grants  no  change, 

I  long  for  the  earth's  quiet  dwelling 
And  departure  from  life's  dark  range. 

And  I  gaze  upon  the  lamp-lit  picture 
That  hangs  suspended  on  the  wall. 

The  great  and  only  Napoleon, 
Frolific  in  his  sad  downfall ! 

As  I  look  into  his  downcast  face, 
Neglected  in  his  rock-bound  seat, 

Looking  out  into  the  ocean, 

Another  "  Waterloo  "  beyond  retreat ! 

My  hopes  seem  to  be  growing  brighter. 

For  a  soldier's  in  the  room  ! 
And  my  cares  are  lifting  from  me 

In  the  great  Napoleon's  gloom  ! 

And  who  cannot  look  about  them. 

No  matter  how  bowed  down  with  care, 

And  always  find  alleviation. 
In  another's  far  greater  share  ? 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


MY  INVITATION. 

I've  liad  an  invitation 

To  a  very  swell  affair  ; — 
And  my  basket  of  provision 

Entitles  me  a  chair. 

'Twill  be  a  selected  social 

For  only  a  chosen  few, 
But  in  the  grand  old  total 

I  shall  be  there  with  both  feet,  too. 

For  we  are  the  people 

And  distinct  from  the  rest, 

As  the  Methodist  steeple 
Is  like  Bartholdi's  best. 

Oh  !  society  is  the  stuff, 

Especially  in  a  little  town  ; — 

I  say  it's  a  game  of  bluff 
Played  only  by  a  clown  ! 

Now  remember  this  timely  tip 
And  take  it  with  you  home  ; — 

Tillage  eyes  are  sizing  it, 
'Tis  for  all,  not  you  alone. 

But  thinking  of  that  invitation, 
That  finally  comes  to  all — 

Of  that  grand  association 
Where  God  alone  will  call ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY, 


87 


Will  you  be  among  the  chosen 

Selected  with  the  few  ? 
Assessors  they  are  holden 

To  keep  the  records  true. 

For  there  we'll  have  society, 

Without  the  silk  and  satin  flounce, 

And  cod-fish  aristocracy, 
Will  surely  get  the  bounce. 


THE  RENEGADE. 

Scene A  wood  ;  Philip,  the  Sachem,  is  sitting  near  a 
few  blazing  fagots,  seeming  in  deep  thought:  by  his  side 
sleeps  his  little  son. 

Beneath  yon  nighted  shades,  sleep  the  remnant 
Of  my  little  band  ; — encamped  where  death  is 
Sentry.    Ah  !  the  sainted  ones  of  creed  have 
Else  than  befooled  me,  our  liomes  are  laid  waste, 
Our  pleasant  camp-fires  treacherous  comforts  ! 
My  tattered  force,  strewn  like  the  autumn  leaves, 
And,  as  the  naked  shrub  yields  to  the  storm, 
So,  I  must  bow  to  their  prosperous  sway. 
The  Indian  hath  sheltered  those  who  have 
Made  him  homeless  !    Ah  !  he  hop'd  for  those, 
wdio 

Have  filled  him  with  despair !  he  welcom'd  those 
To  whom  he  bids  no  farewell ;  aye  !  curs'd  be 
They,  who  like  the  viper  seem  to  fondle. 
Yet,  move  with  deadly  aim  !  !Night,  has  thrown 
its 


38 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Cloak  about  me,  and  ere  it  be  too  late 
I  must  scan  our  darksome  way. 
As  he  is  about  to  leave,  the  Renegade  enters,  wasted 
and  wayworn. 

Alas !  what 
Evil  spirit  hath  led  thee  to  this  wood  ? 

Renegade : 
The  spirit  of  Eevenge  ! 

Philip  : 

Miscreant !  is 
Not  my  wretched  lot  enough  to  move  thy 
Harden'd  heart,  or  hath  a  iifth  sense  ne'er  been 
Quoted  in  thy  frame  ? 

Renegade : 
Dolt  ?  thy  prating  tongue, 
Doth  flatter  thee  !  the  name  fool  quests  pity  ; 
Benighted  is  he  that  gives  thee  such  ;  thou 
Hast  slain  my  brother  !  gloat  filled  thine  eyes  as 
They  watched  the  blood  that  flow'd  from  his 
youthful 

Form  ;  he  who  Avould  invoke  the  blessings  of 
Peace  ;  and  thou  did'st  smite  him  to  the  earth, 
aye, 

Leaving  him  for  the  raven's  meal !    But  one 
More  like  the  just  than  thee,  laid  him  beneath 
The  woodland's  turf,  where  the  cypress  bends  in 
Mournful  attitude  and  the  rustling  leaves 
Alone  pay  heed  to  his  sepulchre :  1 
Come  to  avenge  the  wronged  ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY, 


39 


Philip : 

As  the  wayworn 
Traveller  greets  the  nearing  lint,  so  I 
Welcome  the  approach  of  death  !  the  resistive 
Abode,  that  dawns  in  peaceful  aspect  at 
The  bend  of  life.    Long  have  I  baffl'd  the 
White  man  ;  longer,  I  cannot  oppose  ;  my 
Heart  is  sad,  my  spirit  broken  ;  like  the  ' 
Wounded  doe,  I  seek  the  quiet  inlet. 
But  my  blood  betrays  me.    Traitor  !  !  my  breast 
Is  bare. 

Renegade  : 

How  with  thy  brat  ?    Dost  hear  the  cries 
That  plead  for  thy  return  ?  Know'st  thou  that  the 
Light  of  civilization  will  be  to 
Him  an  Ignis  Fatuus  ?  from  its  circling 
Depths  never  can  he  retreat. 

Philip  : 

Faithless  wretch  ! 
As  thou  hast  belied  the  blood  that  suckl'd 
Thee,  so  may  that,  which  thou  dost  foster,  meet 
Thee  likewise  ! 

[The  boy  has  awakened  and  recognizing  the  Renegade, 
runs  to  his  side.] 

Oh  I  God  !  he  greets  thy  coming. 

Ah  !  it  seems  as  though  it  were  of  y ester 

Noon,  that  he  played  upon  thy  knee  ;  that  his 

Hand  was  clasped  about  thy  neck  ;  O  !  death ! 

bid 

The  poor  sachem  pass  within  that  camp,  where 


40 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Sleep  soothes  tlie  troubl'd  head  and  rests  the 

weary 
Fugitive  ! 

Renegade : 
Ha  !  that  scene  doth  gall  ray  sonl ! 
Memory  !  thou  conscientious  blab,  would'st 
Balk  me  here  ?  tut,  this  is  nature's  whim.  Brat, 
Away  !  thy  presence  would  make  an  oaf  of 
Me.    Murderer  !  we  are  quits,  when  this  blade 
Shall  find  its  sheath  within  thy  heart. 

[He  rushes  upon  him  :  they  fight  :  Philip  falls  fatally 
■wounded  :  his  child  runs  to  him,  Philip  grasps  his  knife 
and  stabs  him  as  the  Renegade  is  about  to  tear  him  away.] 

Fooled  ?  Ah  ! 
Flesh,  though  drudge  to  the  thought,  I  would 
give  thee 

Liberty  ; — could  it  be  in  death  ?  the  night 
To  all,  wherein  the  sleeper  need  not  turn 
His  pillow  o'er.  Alas  !  should  I  in  the 
Stead  of  peace  find  a  hell :  whither  then  my 
Soul?  Ah  !  presuming  tenant  of  this  mortal 
Dwelling  !  I  cast  thee  out !  thou  art  to  all 
A  stranger,  yet,  death  will  take  thee  in. 

[Stabs  himself. 


LINES. 

Written  in  Union  Square  Park,  New  York  City,  April 
13th,  "  '78." 

Sing,  little  birds  upon  the  branches. 
Merry  warblers  of  the  spring  ; — 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


41 


Pleasing  to  ine  the  varied  fancies 
Thou  art  yearly  wont  to  bring. 

Refreshing  now.  thy  spring-time  chirrup, 

In  the  city's  noisy  din, 
As  is  the  cooling  breeze  that  prancing 

Marks  with  spray  the  river's  brim. 

Perplexed  with  cares  that  seem  to  weary, 
I  yearn  for  thy  freedom  more  ! 

And  that  which  I  value  so  dearly 
Is  but  least  of  all  thy  store. 


TO  A  HELIOTROPE. 

Stay,  guest  within  my  chamber. 
Welcome  to  the  place  you  hold, 

As  are  the  thoughts  you  render 
To  the  dwelling  of  my  soul. 

Sweet  reminder  of  a  Being, 
Stay,  and  in  thy  meekly  way, 

Still  retain  to  earth  a  seeming, 

Warmed  by  more  than  Heaven's  ray. 


THE  GOLDEN  SHELL. 

A  little  maid  wanders  by  the  sea, 
Gathering  golden  shells  for  me  ; — 
Filling  her  pretty  pinafore. 


42 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Heedless  of  tlie  waves  that  wet  her  o'er : 

Iler  limbs  are  graced  in  nature's  hose, 

Her  hair  is  like  the  shells  in  glow. 

Ah !  she  hath  passed,  to  come  no  more. 

No,  though  I  saunter  o'er  and  o'er. 

The  sands  will  ne'er  again  relate 

That  I  have  tarried,  I  am  late ; — 

Yet  I  too  shall  go  her  way. 

Oh  !  should  it  seem  like  one  dark  day. 

Void  of  a  light  to  guide  me  on, 

Oh  !  faith,  wilt  though  be  ever  strong  ? 

And  let  me  take  her  golden  shell. 

To  know  that  it  may  only  tell. 

Of  her  who  has  gone  before  ! 

"Who  leaves  me  wandering  on  the  shore. 


THE  RABBIT  HUNTER. 

I  am  a  great  rabbit  hunter 

And  noiseless  on  the  tread  ; 
My  dog,  he  is  a  cooler, 

A  perfect  thoroughbred ! 

My  gun,  'tis  made  of  finest  tin. 
When  others  I  cannot  borrow. 

And  just  the  same  through  thick  or  thin, 
The  rabbits  yell  with  sorrow  ! 

'Twas  yesterday  we  struck  a  track 
And  followed  it  for  half  a  mile, 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


43 


And  when  we  came  np  to  the  scratch 
We  found  we'd  only  struck  "  a  smile." 

For  there  in  the  bushes  so  neat 
Lay  a  pint  of  the  liunter's  kit ; 

And  but  for  my  protruding  feet, 

The  dog  and  I,  we'd  had  a  rare-hit !  ' 


THE  CITADEL. 

The  village  bells  were  tolling;  some  one  was 
dead,  for  the  old  sexton  stood  in  the  entry-way 
of  the  meeting-house  pulling  down  upon  the 
ropes,  as  a  waggon  driven  by  a  couple  of  soldiers 
was  passing.  The  village  smith  leaned  upon  his 
anvil,  and  the  neighboring  grocer  was  looking 
over  his  glasses  upon  the  meek  procession  :  who 
was  dead  ?  nobody  knew  ;  it  was  a  soldier  who 
had  fallen,  in  battle  and  his  blood-stained  gar- 
ments only  identified  his  regiment. 

A  forsaken  and  destitute  looking  creature  now 
came  tottering  along,  muttering  to  herself : — "He 
is  dead  !  and  they  will  not  let  me  see  his  face  — 
no,  they  w^ill  not  let  me  see  my  Jamie."  This 
unfortunate  soul  had  lost  a  son  in  the  war ;  he  left 
her,  enlisted  and  was  never  heard  from,  and  the 
loss  of  her  only  boy  had  sorrowfully  affected  her 
mind.  She  stopped  as  she  reached  the  corner, 
and  looking  tenderly  into  the  face  of  a  little  girl 


44 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


that  stood  there  witli  her  companion,  she  said  : — 
"  You  did  not  know  my  boy,  did  you  ?  they  are 
taking  him  away."  And  she  looked  up  after  the 
slowly  moving  cart,  which  was  ascending  the 
winding  hill :  the  little  girls  detected  her  averted 
movement,  and  half-friglitened  ran  away,  shout- 
ing "  It's  old  Martha,  the  crazy  woman." 

The  miserable  woman  watched  them*  for  a  mo- 
ment with  tearful  eyes,  and  then  turned  away, 
talking  to  herself,  as  before  : — "  Yes,  I  am  crazy, 
the  gray-haired  sire  meets  me  with  a  chuckle,  the 
boy  imparts  his  scorn  in  snow,  the  maiden  smiles 
at  my  rags  !  world  how  cold  tliou  art !  my  boy  ! 
my  poor  boy !  he  left  his  home,  his  mother,  his 
companions,  to  defend  his  endangered  country — 
lie  tells  his  love  by  dying  for  his  hate — he  falls 
in  battle,  as  the  flower  falls,  imparting  sweetness 
in  its  death !  The  world  deprives  me  of  hope 
and  leaves  me  with  despair.  I  ask  for  that 
which  has  made  my  home  a  heaven,  and  I  am 
crazy  ;  I  ask  for  aid,  and  I  am  a  pauper  !  Oh  ! 
world,  can  all  my  askings  receive  the  answer  that 
will  give  me  hope  once  more,  once  again  fill  this 
poor  old  heart  with  gladness?  then  give  me  back 
my  boy  ! " 

She  had  now  reached  the  graveyard  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  great  stone  post  as  the  last  of 
a  few  curious  followers  entered  the  cemetery ; 
she  stood  like  one  in  a  dream  for  a  few  moments. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


45 


and  then  moved  along,  reaching  the  newly  made 
grave  as  those  who  had  gathered  were  taking  the 
last  look  at  the  dead  soldier. 

There  he  lay  clothed  in  the  armor  of  the  battle- 
field— his  featnres  were  not  discernible — his 
hand  paled  with  death  lay  across  his  bosom,  and 
a  star  of  our  banner,  crimsoned  with  his  blood, 
lay  over  the  fatal  wound  :  the  poor  trembling 
woman  stood  near,  looking  upon  his  mutilated 
form  ; — she  seemed  quite  calm,  then  suddenly  her 
eyes  fell  upon  a  fragment  of  paper  which  just 
appeared  above  the  pocket  of  blue,  and  moved 
as  though  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning  she 
snatched  it,  and  opening  it  she  read  :  "  Mother, 
we  are  in  the  fight,  and  I  hear  tlie  cries  of  vic- 
tory." "  My  God !  it  is  my  boy  !  "  and  she  fell 
to  the  ground  in  a  swoon. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  at  her  home,  in  the 
old  house  near  the  church  ;  the  news  had  spread 
quickly  over  the  little  village,  and  familiar  faces 
stood  at  her  bedside.  The  little  girl  whom  we 
have  seen  before,  stood  there  watching  the  re- 
turn of  consciousness,  and  when  it  dawned  she 
welcomed  it  with  a  kiss ; — and  this  childish  way 
to  seek  forgiveness  formed  by  love  a  citadel,  and 
its  guardless  walls  held  the  stay  of  the  lingering 
soul  in  security. 


46 


HERR  CHERR  y  TREES 


WEE  JIMMIE. 

Of  all  the  themes  that  find  nij  pen 

And  occupy  my  leisure  time  ; — 
I  take  no  greater  pleasure  then 

To  give  "  Wee  Jimmie  "  now  the  rhyme. 

The  kid  that  came  from  Scotland's  isle 

And  reached  us  with  our  greatest  storm  ; — 

With  snow  piled  high,  and  stormy  sky 
He  verily  looked  forlorn. 

He  found  the  town  half  hid  from  sight 
Asleep  beneath  the  winter  snows  ; — 

He  found  a  home  both  warm  and  bright 
And  now  for  dear  ]^ew  England  crows. 

Our  town  it  has  its  wise  prelates 

And  great  big  men  do  here  abound  ; — 

But  all  are  cakes  at  pitching  quakes 

When  "  Wee  Jimmie  "  is  on  the  ground. 

He  puts  to  sleep  the  latest  clogs 

And  scoops  the  shining  coppers  in  ; — 

He  envies  none  their  better  togs 

^' Wee  Jimmie  " 's  a  trump  and  bound  to  win. 

"  Wee  Jimmie  "  has  no  father's  aid 

His  mother  works  the  live-long  while  ; — 

His  age  is  six,  he  never  kicks. 
He  is  a  dandy  without  guile. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


47 


He  stands  upon  liis  ample  head 

Witli  a  smile  upon  liis  face  ; — 
He  goes  to  sleep  in  any  bed 

And  easy  gives  his  cares  the  chase. 

He  writes  his  name  in  better  style 

Than  half  the  full  grown  men  in  town  ; — 

He  turns  hand  springs  and  daily  sings 
He  is  our  Harlequin  and  clown. 

And  on  great  independence  day 
He  appeared  in  a  fine  disguise  : — 

He  left  his  betters  all  at  bay — 
And  fairly  took  the  leading  prize. 

For  on  he  came  in  his  barouche, 
Disguised  in  a  real  pair  of  shoes  ; — 

Take  down  the  spread,  make  up  his  bed, 
We'll  give  "  wee  Jimmie  "  now  a  snooze. 


OUR  VILLAGE. 

NORTH  GRAFTON. 

Our  thriving  village  you  will  find. 

Within  great  W  r's  wide  domain  ; — 

And  though  in  size  weh-efar  behind. 
We  take  a  place  in  point  of  fame. 

We  are  a  fly-speck  of  a  place. 

Surrounded  by  great  wooded  hills , — 


48 


HERR  CHERRYTREKS 


Where  wind  and  gossip  daily  race 
And  neighbors  know  each  others'  ills. 

'Twas  here  great  Belcher  came  in  state, 
With  title  for  the  infant  town ; — 

While  Indians  with  surplus  great 

Were  lining  out  the  new-sold  ground. 

And  now  we  note  our  present  age, 

When  woods  give  way  to  statelj^  lioraes  ; — 

And  iron  rails  surpass  the  stage, 
Connecting  us  Avith  many  zones. 

We  have  our  schools  and  churches  too. 
Where  godly  words  do  not  attract ; — 

For  empty  most  is  every  pew, 

While  rabbits  they  can  swear  to  that. 

We  have  our  great  societies, 

Where  morals  they  alone  exist ; — 

And  none  have  improprieties. 
As  our  history  will  insist. 

We  have  our  big  and  little  men. 

Who  used  to  do  the  town  with  paint ; — 

But  now,  they  all  get  in  at  ten 

Or  put  up  with  their  wife's  complaint. 

We  have  our  wills  and  law  disputes. 

Where  honest  bills  will  scarcely  hold  ; — 

And  few  succeed  with  good  reputes 
While  flip  and  forward  stalk  the  bold. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


We  have  our  air-gun  gallery, 

A  banker  for  our  tid-bit  change  ; — • 

"With  target  nailed  beneath  the  tree 
And  trains  on  wing  for  finer  range. 

"We  have  our  corner  grocery  shop, 
Where  villagers  will  nightly  gad  ; — 

To  take  their  share  of  home-brewed  hop 
And  really  prove  it's  not  so  bad. 

We  used  to  have  a  big  brass  band, 

That  filled  the  night  with  mad  refrains 

But  cats  were  soon  to  leave  the  land, 
And  cracked  became  our  window  panes 

We  have  our  slim  and  buxom  girls, 
Who  think  they  put  the  town  to  sleep  ; 

Who  spread  broadcast  the  latest  frills 
And  really  make  us  obsolete. 

In  fact  we  share  our  worldly  fame 
Like  other  towns  within  the  State  ; — 

I  fain  would  give  our  proper  name, 
But  we  are  quite  N  G  of  late. 

SHE  GAVE  HERSELF  UP. 

Within  the  depths  of  woody  glade 

Where  trace  of  man  is  scarcely  seen — 

A  frightened  deer  by  thirst  dehiyed, 
Stood  close  beside  a  wayward  stream. 


60 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


While  far  away  and  near  the  brush 

A  hound  close  snuffling  on  the  ground, 

With  cracky  bark  and  sudden  rush, 
Now  starts  the  pack  in  eager  bound. 

Ilowl  upon  howl  now  reach  the  ear 

While  hunters  haste  to  cheer  tlie  pack — 

And  far  beyond  the  listening  deer 

Knows  well  the  hounds  are  on  her  track. 

With  fearless  plunge,  she  vaults  the  brook 
Nor  stops  till  sounds  have  died  away  ; — 

And  when  she  does,  that  restless  look 
Predicts  the  hounds  are  still  at  bay. 

A  crackling  shot  now  checks  her  stay 
And  badly  crippled  on  she  bounds. 

While  belching  dogs  perceive  their  prey, 
And  fill  the  woods  with  furious  sounds. 

And  deep  into  the  marshy  place 
The  driven  deer  bewildered  reels  ; — 

While  hounds  close  up  the  narrow  space 
And  follow  fast  upon  her  heels. 

And  just  beyond  the  high-grown  grove 
Behold  the  deer's  half  human  feat ; — 

Now  sorely  pressed,  to  mercy  drove, 
She  flings  herself  at  woodman's  feet. 

This  as  the  very  last  resort 

To  seek  protection  from  the  hounds, 


PROS' r:  AXI)  POETR  Y. 


51 


But  proves  a  faitli  too  dearly  boui^lit 
For  woodman's  axe  witli  blood  abounds. 

(),  brutal  man  !  to  thus  betray 

The  simple  faith  of  helpless  doe  ; — 

Thou  worse  than  hounds  that  track  their  prey, 
How  could'st  thou  strike  the  heartless  blow? 

Thou,  too,  on  some  unlucky  day 

When  driven  by  oppressive  foe, 
May'st  look  for  aid  and  meet  thy  pay 

Like  this  poor  harmless,  helpless  doe. 


TO  A  TEA-POT. 

Dull  urn,  like  harper  of  the  self-same  tune 
That  promotes  a  charm  to  the  old  maid's  doom ! 
Methinks  the  abler  bards  have  failed  to  sing 
Of  such  as  thee,  meek  inferior  thing ; — 
And  yet,  neglecting  thee  within  their  verse 
But  proves  thy  gain  was  with  the  reverse. 
For  left  to  the  elderly  virgin's  tongue 
Thou  hast,  throughout  the  world  already  sung, 
With  note  more  pleasing  to  the  general  ear 
Than  sweeter  strains,  no  matter  liow  they  veer. 
For  who  has  not  mused  o'er  the  steaming  pot, 
While  sweeter  strains  remain  unsought  ? 
Yes,  many  a  poet  has  sung  and  gone 
While  thy  dull  unmetered  hum  goes  on  ! 
Old  maids  !  beware  !  I  warn  attend  the  urn, 


53 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


For  posts  soon  may  liave  their  sumptnons 
And  vie  witli  far  more  sweeter  strains 
Than  tlij  simple,  hissing  nrn  proclaims. 


]\[ISS  GOSSIP. 

My  maiden  name  is  Gossip 
And  I've  had  many  a  chance  ; 

But  I  would  never  SAVop  it — 
Not  at  the  very  first  glance. 

!No,  I  prefer  to  remain  single 

Jnst  as  long  as  I  can, 
If  my  tongue  is  in  the  middle 

I  wouldn't  be  a  man  ! 

I  know  I'm  not  invited 

To  the  entertainment  of  ours  ; 

But  even  if  I'm  slighted 

1  know  who  keeps  these  late  hours. 

There's  that  silly  Miss  So-and-so, 

With  all  her  airy  airs ; 
/know  she  went  to  see  "Zozo," 

And  had  orchestra  chairs. 

Why,  and  look  at  that  new  dress, 
With  its  astonishing  pleat ! 

Kow  isn't  it  enough  to  distress 
Those  who  try  to  look  neat? 


PROSE  AXD  POETRY.  53 
• 

Why,  if  slic  was  my  daugliter 

And  I  had  anything  to  say  ! 
Now  you  know,  I'd  just  walk  lier 

In  a  promising  way. 

They  say  I'm  a  great  talker 

And  heaping  full  of  gad  ; — 
And  because  she  isn't  my  daughter 

I  am  terribly  mad. 

Gracious  Lord  !  do  you  suppose 

That  I'd  have  a  man  about  ? 
Well,  no !  not  for  all  the  clothes 

This  here  town  could  turn  out. 

Ah  !  isn't  that  a  stranger  ? 

Why,  who  else  can  it  be  ? 
What  an  awful  neat  stepper, 

I'll  just  go  out  and  see. 

I  never  was  so  mistaken. 

Who  do  you  suppose  it  is  ? 
Why,  it's  that  young  Mister  Chapin 

Without  that  beard  of  his. 

Oh  !  I'm  in  such  a  flutter, 

Tliese  wicked,  thoughtless  men  ! 

They  don't  care  how  they  start  yer, 
But  they'll  never  say  "  when." 


54 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


THE  MILL  ON  THE  DAMN-SIDE. 

A  corporation  skirts  tlie  town, 
Polluting  ever  J  germ  of  health 

B}'  hiring  children  scarcel}^  grown 
While  they  speed  on  toward  wealth. 

The  mill  suggests  !  the  curse  survives ! 

Of  slaving  children  for  their  gain  ; 
While  social  law  protects  their  lives 

And  boldly  will  their  rights  sustain. 

The  notice  hangs  within  their  doors, 

But  only  for  the  blind  to  read, 
For  this  is  what  they  tell  their  boys, 

If  they  to  sixty  hours  agreed. 

A  lock  is  on  this  prison  door, 
A  watch  is  stationed  at  the  gate. 

They  care  not  for  the  ten  hour  law 
And  spurn  the  orders  of  our  State  ! 

They'd  hire  our  babes  when  first  they  creep, 
If  they  could  spin  the  twisted  thread  ; — 

They  figure  only  what  is  cheap 

And  know  the  need  is  daily  bread  ! 

Our  town  is  small,  but  wide  awake 

To  an  illegal  glass  of  beer ; — 
And  well  offenders  know  their  fate 

When  they  attempt  the  traffic  here. 


PROSE  AND  POKTRW 


55 


The  mill  still  here  polluting  thrives, 

Defiant  to  all  posted  laws ! 
And  children  more  will  slave  their  lives 

Before  they'll  fear  the  eagle's  claws  ! 

The  mill  still  rules  !  the  curse  survives  ! 

'Tis  twisted  in  their  very  thread, 
'Twill  spool  upon  their  moneyed  lives 

And  follow  them  when  they  are  dead  I 


A  NEW  FOWL-PIECE. 

Of  sensations  rich  and  rare 

I  have  one  to  relate, 
And  though  it  started  quite  a  scare, 

It  justly  took  the  cake. 

About  a  noisy  little  pug 
That  startled  well  the  town, 

By  getting  all  his  daily  grub 
In  running  chickens  down. 

He  killed  his  neighbors  one  by  one. 
The  rest  got  up  and  fled ; — 

And  when  he  saw  what  he  had  done 
He  merely  scratched  his  head  ! 

One  day  the  neighbor  he  came  home 
To  find  his  breeders  dead, 

When  he  sat  down  upon  a  stone 
And  likewise  scratched  his  headl 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


The  dog  looked  back  and  saw  him  there, 
Shaking  liis  troubled  pate  ; — 

When  np  he  went  into  the  air, 
Just  where,  I  can't  relate. 

The  owner  hunted  for  his  Ben 
And  talked  of  war  and  peace. 

But  Ben  had  met  a  different  hen, 
And  skipped  with  a  foiol-jpiece. 


THE  ESCAPE. 

Dying  in  a  prison  ward 
A  wounded  convict  lay  ; 

His  head  pillowed  by  a  pard 
Who  wore  the  prison  grey. 

Just  at  his  side  a  letter, 

Begrimmed  by  frequent  care, 
And  in  his  cell  the  jailer 

Sat,  in  the  only  chair. 

A  little  pet  canary. 

Though  doubly  caged  by  fate, 
Was  singing  sweet  and  cheery 

Within  the  walls  so  great. 

I  am  dying,  he  would  say. 
To  shield  an  others  wrong. 

Wondering  he  passed  the  day, 
At  night  his  soul  was  gone. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


57 


And  before  he  breathed  his  last 

lie  rose  up  in  his  bed  ; — 
"With  his  eyes  a  setting  fast, 

In  broken  accents  said  : 

"  I'm  going  '  Pard  ! ' — I'm  going  ! 

I've  scaled  the  wall  this  time, 
I  hear  the  guards,  they're  firing 

Along  the  watchful  line  ! 

"  Say  *  Pard  ! '  they'll  be  suspended  ! 

Tliey're  shooting  wide  to-night ;  " — 
And  here  his  soul  ascended 

From  darkness  into  light ! 


LINES 

Written  on  the  beach  at  New  Bedford,  February  1st, 
1878. 

I  saunter  by  the  coming  tide. 
Alone  upon  the  sea-strewn  shore, 

And  yet  forever  at  my  side 
Seems  a  spirit  wandering  o'er. 

The  cold  dull  thud  of  the  sea 

Beguiles  me  with  that  sweeter  lay. 

That  touched  our  souls  in  harmony 
And  moved  our  hearts  but  in  one  way. 

I  linger  by  the  familiar  seat 

Where  oft  I  named  the  stars  above, 


58 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


And  there,  again,  tliy  thoiiglitless  retreat 
But  moves  me  to  thee  in  mj  love. 

O  soul !  art  thou  forever  gone, 

Or  dost  thou  sometimes  seem  with  me  ? 
And  do  I  sit  but  here  alone 

Or  am  I  on  the  shore  with  thee  ? 


iTHE  DEATH  OF  THEODORE  BEANE. 

There's  a  footprint  for  the  purest  snow, 
A  death-kfiipck  for  the  slighted  door ; — 

There's  a  rough  impression  of  sorrow 
That  each  heart  alone  must  endure. 

Each  hearthstone  has  its  dying  ember, 
That  lingers  on  with  feeble  glow  ; — 

Each  fireside  its  elder  member 
That  while  others  stay  it  must  go. 

And  thus  'tis  those  that  dying  leave  us, 
That  light  the  pathway  to  the  goal, 

That  otherwise  would  seem  treacherous, 
To  the  weary  wandering  soul ! 

For  death,  like  the  snow  that's  falling"^ 

On  this  cheerless  wintry  day. 
Is  with  its  mission  hastening 

Hopeful  spring  on  her  joyous  way. 


PEOSE  AND  POETRY. 


59 


BEN  AND  MA. 

The  service  was  ending, 

The  hat  was  going  round ; — 

And  the  coins  falling 
Gave  a  musical  sound. 

It  was  up  to  the  banker, 
At  his  ease  giving  hand  ; — 

And  he  mortgaged  a  bumper 
On  the  promising  land  ! 

And  his  handsome  daughter, 
With  her  queenly  smile. 

Had  folded  another 
For  the  carpeted  aisle. 

But  the  deacon,  bowing, 

Passed  on  his  way  ; 
While  a  kid  sat  pointing 

Where  the  fiver  lay  ! 

Still,  with  assuming  grace, 
The  deacon  held  the  hat, 
'  'Till  he  came  face  to  face 
Before  the  anxious  brat. 

And  nearly  bending  in  two 
Lending  his  abler  ear, 

He  leaned  far  over  the  pew 
That  he'd  distinctly  hear. 


60 


HERE  CHERRYTREE'S 


You  dropped  a  fiver,  *  Snell,' 
The  seventh  pew  beyond ; 
I  saw  it  as  it  fell, 

It  came  from  Mr.  Pond." 

Straightway  the  aisle  lie  went 

To  where  the  fiver  lay  ; — - 
And  when  he  his  body  bent 

A  voice  came :    Let  us  pray." 

And  there  to  the  kid's  deliglit, 

Not  daring  to  stand  up. 
Deacon  held  the  fiver  tight — 

Another  "  Y  "  he  cut ! 

The  mother  could  no  longer  bear, 
She  made  those  pants  for  Ben  ; — 

A  well  placed  grip,  an  awful  tear, 
And  then  the  chant.  Amen  ! 

The  congregation  they  filed  out. 

While  Ben  and  ma  they  stayed  behind, 

For  ma  had  been  a  trifle  stout, 
And  pants  are  seldom  lined.. 


THE  BROKEN  VASE. 

Beside  yon  liumbly  mounded  grave, 
Wherein  some  form  now  lowly  lies, 

A  broken  vase  imparts  the  love. 
That  a  withered  flower  implies  ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


61 


The  sweetness  of  its  dying  blush 
Has  sought  a  milder  atmosphere. 

And  like  the  soul  that  leaves  the  dust 
To  move  within  another  sphere, 

The  grave  is  but  the  broken  vase 

Wherein  we  place  the  treasured  gem, 

To  meet  with  that  mysterious  fate 
That  claims  a  wisdom  over  men  ! 

Lone  inmate  of  this  shaded  spot, 
The  solitude  of  death  is  thine  ! 

I,  too,  some  day  will  share  thy  lot 
And  but  await  unfolding  time. 

The  churchyard  gloom  shall  then  be  mine, 
O  !  will  some  stranger  gently  place 

A  fragrant  blooming  jessamine 

Within  mi/  stained  and  broken  vase  ! 

That  it  may  stop  some  passer-by 
To  look  upon  its  wilted  sedge, 

And  think  as  I  have  learned  to  sigli 
The  fragrance  of  its  life  is  fled. 


THE  BROOK. 
Upon  thy  banks,  O  babbling  stream, 
1  learned  and  loved  to  idly  dream  ; — 
By  thee  I  passed  the  hours  of  day 
In  rudely  dreaming  time  away. 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Listening  to  thy  idle  song! 
Dreaming  as  it  sallied  on, 
To  the  little  maid  with  leaky  cup 
Who  climbs  the  rock  to  catch  a  sup. 

O  !  blithesome  brook,  how  like  my  dream 
Is  thy  noisy,  prattling  stream  ! 
Flowing  o'er  the  golden  sand 
On  to  its  fall  so  near  at  hand. 

Though  ere  so  vain,  the  fevered  brow 
Doth  find  a  balm  within  thy  flow  ; — 
And  thou,  oh !  dream,  in  youth  so  vain, 
Yieldeth  hours  to  my  life  again. 


ODE  TO  A  MOSQUITO. 

Yain  minstrel  of  the  evening  train 
There  is  no  charm  within  thy  strain. 
And  why  persistent  wilt  thou  play 
To  me,  who  care  not  for  thy  lay  ? 

Away  !  disturber  of  my  sleep  ! 
And  force  me  not  my  vow  to  keep, 
Kor  stay  to  tune  thy  airy  harp. 
As  though  thou  play'st  with  any  sharp. 

Dull  bird  !  thy  simple  touching  strain 
Imparts  more  truth  than  I  proclaim  ; — 
For  I  have  lieard  that  from  thy  note 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


63 


Tlie  very  best  musicians  quote ! 
That  all  the  music  doth  depend 
Upon  the  sounds  that  natures  lend. 

How  now  !  for  this  audacious  bird 
Can  I  forgive  the  cheek  bestirred, 
If  notes  that  charm  tliis  ear  of  mine 
But  signify  what  has  been  thine? 

And  yet  I  ne'er  can  wear  the  ore, 
Though  the  diamond  be  its  core  ; — 
So  I  reject  thy  serenade, 
Although  it  has  a  Mozart  made. 


AT  NEWPORT  CLIFFS. 

I  stood  at  night  upon  the  cliffs 

That  sternly  face  the  Newport  sea ; — 

And  watched  the  breakers  rolling  in, 
And  heard  their  wild,  sad  minstrelsy. 

The  moon  was  in  its  splendor  bii  , 
Its  pale  light  falling  on  the  sea, 

That  leaped  and  pranced  among  the  crags 
lhat  moved  to  sway  in  melody. 

Above  my  head  the  palace  soared, 
Below  me  stood  the  fisher's  cot ; 

I  saw  the  scene  that  favored  both 
And  felt  the  wisdom  that  it  taught. 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


A  RAILROAD  CROSSINa. 

There  is  a  railroad  crossing, 

Not  very  far  away  ! 
And  the  signal  gives  the  warning 

At  night  and  break  of  day. 

"  Lookout  "  is  tlie  word  that's  given 
On  the  towering  post  at  hand, 

And  your  chances  are  about  even 
For  the  happier,  better  land  ! 

For  they  are  always  running 

At  an  ever  heedless  rate. 
And  the  public  in  travelling 

Are  simply  making  tliem  great ! 

And  when  you're  at  the  crossing, 
In  the  dark  hours  of  the  night. 

Take  a  yankee  for  guessing, 
The  bell  will  not  be  right ! 

But  the  expresses  will  be  coming, 
With  their  loads  of  human  freight! 

And  the  bell  will  do  its  ringing. 
When  it  is  all  too  late! 

Now  it  is  only  a  question, 
And  to  their  great  delight. 

When  we  give  them  the  signal 
And  furnish  thein  the  light ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


65 


And  wlien  in  tlie  near  future 
You  are  obliged  to  cross, 

A  red  light  is  the  feature 
On  the  nose  of  jour  horse ! 


PURGATORY  * 

"We  visited  the  place  to-day, 

Where  a  rumored  hell  is  found  ; — 

"We  roamed  along  its  rugged  way 
But  saw  no  Devil  around. 

We  sat  upon  the  great  high  rocks 

That  looked  the  chasm  o'er, 
But  saw  none  of  his  puny  flocks 

And  lieard  no  streams  of  gore. 

We  tlirew  him  crackers  by  the  bunch, 
With  a  lighted  fuse  on  each  ; — 

And  had  he  really  craved  a  lunch, 
We  were  food  within  his  reach ! 

We  left  our  names  to  catch  his  sight 
And  sauced  him  at  his  cave  ; — 

And  when  he  goes  down  home  to-night, 
I  know  he'll  wildly  rave. 

*A  deep  ravine  or  chasm,  curiously  picturesque  and 
startling,  which  is  situated  in  the  town  of  Sutton,  Mass., 
and  bears  the  above  denomination. 


60 


HERR  CHERRYTREKS 


But  I'm  sure  lie  was  not  there  ; 

Does  he  get  liis  beer  at  "  Pljmpt's  "  ? 
If  so  we  passed  his  fabled  mare 

With  two  of  his  drunken  imps. 


CHERRY-ROT. 

Written  in  re])ly  to  the  criticism  on  my  first  pamphlet, 
"  Cherries  from  a  Young  Tree," 

Big  guns,  this  editor's  notice, 

Three  chips  from  the  "  Cherry-tree  "  ; — 
And    Cherries  "  are  quite  the  novice 

In  newspaper  melody  I 

I  sigh  for  your  metrical  skill, 
I  need  the  great  "  Caesura  "  ; — 

To  you  the  Muses  give  their  fill. 
With  me  they're  just  peculiar. 

I  see  the  jar  of  faulty  rhymes, 
The  "  Heliotrope  "  is  ample  ; — 

But  I'll  wake  up  to  suit  the  times, 
Pray  give  us  now  a  sample. 

^o\v  stick  to    the  natural  pause," 

To  "  random,''  leave  your  thinking  , — 

Just  cram  your  head  with  metric  laws 
And  trade  you  wit,  for  clinking  ! 

A  song  from  the  lusty  critic, 
In  nice  poetical  shoes ; — 


PROSE  AND  POETRY, 


67 


I  never  see  any  one  kick, 

Quite  free  from  the  ngly  bines. 

No  doubt,  I  liave  the  common  spleen 
And  perliaps  you'll  set  me  right ; — 

But  how  plainly  it  can  be  seen 
Your  spleeny,  splenetic  flight! 

Big  feet,  for  my  metrical  thoughts 
That  walk  in  my  poetry  prose ; — 

I  see  you're  way  up  in  the  arts, 
Now  kick  at  that  fly  at  your  nose ! 

Three  cheers  !  for  the  great  Csesura," 
I  can  easily  leave  my  wit ; — 

I'll  smoke  the  cheapest  Madura 
And  write  without  thinking  a  bit. 


THE  TIMES. 

The  times  are  now  in  rank  and  rueful  state 
When  feeble  actions  make  our  notions  great ; 
When  silly  twiddle  twaddle  marks  our  age, 
Bepletes  our  press  and  Alls  her  every  page  : 
When  papers  much  by  fancy  spread  the  news, 
And  readers  more  by  proxy  form  their  view^s. 
For  columns  that  should  elevate  the  mind 
Have  turned  spittoon  for  phlegm  of  human  kind  ; 
And  now,  the  hen  that  lays  the  greatest  egg 
Is  quite  of  moment  as  the  loss  of  leg — 


68 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


And  liere  we  read  of  country  maiden  frail 
Wlio  turns  lier  tnrkeys  to  a  cheaper  mail,'-^* 
To  gobble  (Kit  her  greed  and  love  for  fame 
By  letting  printers  show  her  lack  of  shame; 
And  more,  a  dime-show  courts  her  brazen  face 
To  scoop  tlie  nickels  from  an  easy  race — 
But  worse,  who  gave  this  idle  theme  the  wing, 
This  making  presents  to  the  booby  thing  ? 
While  sparing  cities  deal  the  poor  tiieir  need, 
Yet  notions  such  as  these  we  serve  indeed. 
And  she  a  teacher  in  our  public  schools. 
While  strange  it  is  we  have  so  many  fools  ; 
Bnt  wit  and  sense  full  well  discourao:ed  now. 
For  ages  hence  have  made  their  final  bow. 

Again,  we  see  the  craze  of  dory  fame 
When  men  will  navigate  the  foamy  main 
With  craft  too  fickle  for  a  mill-pond  gale 
While  rabble  runs  to  hear  the  breezy  tale. 
Anon,  we  hear  how  entertained  by  queen, 
And  photographs  and  boat  can  now  be  seen, 
While  winged  the  coppers  fly  to  help  his  state 
For  this  by  foolish  times  is  noted  great ! 
Yet,  wounded  soldiers  starve  w^ithin  our  fold 
And  creaking  treasures  boast  of  surplus  gold. 

And  see  the  rasliful  youth  !  with  jumping  vain, 
Who  risks  his  life  full  turned  by  worldly  gain  ; 

*  A  rural  individual  recently  became  the  recipient  of 
numerous  valuable  presents,  by  placing  begging  letters  in 
marketable  turkeys. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


69 


And  lieadlong  leaps  from  off  the  highest  place^, 
To  sink  a  lifeless  mass  through  whirling  space, 
To  be  picked  up  upon  the  circling  bay 
And  borne  to  weeping  mother  worn  and  gray. 
Another  still  attempts  the  risky  feat : 
Who,  more  fortunate,  lands  upon  his  feet, 
And  thus  in  triumph,  he  is  led  away 
To  make  his  living  in  a  lazy  way. 
Such  acts  onr  papers  spread  with  flashy  views 
While  youthful  minds  drink  deep  the  catchy 
news  ; 

And  sigh  prodigious  for  the  jumper's  art 
With  loss  of  comfort  to  a  mother's  heart. 

The  pugilist  for  paltry  purse  of  pounds. 
Will  fight  like  beast  through  many  bloody  rounds, 
And  fall  a  senseless  heap  of  battered  meat, 
To  be  brought  to  and  learn  of  his  defeat. 
These  acts  are  often  backed  by  men  of  wealth 
Who  thus  grow  fat  through  loss  to  others'  health  ; 
And  oft  some  quiet  spot  with  grassy  mound 
Suggests  who  met  his  death  by  fatal  round ! 

Now  when  such  acts  do  every  day  appear. 
Why  wonder  then  that  our  decline  is  near  ! 
For  see,  Society  has  felt  the  wane 
When  character  no  longer  gains  a  name ; 
And  money  makes  the  worth  and  sense  of  man 
When  fops  and  fribbles  fill  our  better  clan. 
The  nicety  of  dress  and  giddy  taste 


70 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Is  liigliest  art  upon  this  lininan  waste  ; 
And  this,  or  that,  is  wliolly  out  of  style 
Because  it  is  some  chatty  woman's  wile : 
While  such  deformities  of  common  sense 
Have  drove  our  wits  and  all  our  betters  hence — 
And  so  transformed  this  elevated  plain. 
To  worldly  thrift  and  influential  gain, 
That  higher  minds  in  silence  keep  apart 
Or  And  their  union  in  the  thinker's  art. 

The  great  Theatre,  too,  perceives  our  age. 
And  moved  by  counting  dollars  suits  the  rage 
With  scenes,  where  nudity  is  leading  part 
And  transformations  show  the  latest  art ; 
Or  oft  adapt  some  writer's  trasli}^  tale 
Because  it 's  great  by  quickly  finding  sale. 
The  merits  of  a  piece  they  ne'er  partake. 
Their  only  question  is,  to  make  a  stake  ; 
And  play  well  advertised,  though  truly  weak. 
Is  sure  to  meet  with  consecutive  week  : 
While  higher  scenes  and  nobler  works  lie  dead 
Because  this  educator 's  lost  its  head  ! 

Behold !   the  church  has  joined  the  swelling 
throng 

And  losing  caste,  promotes  a  greater  wrong  ! 
When  men  will  preach  to  suit  the  reigning  taste, 
Forsaking  truth  for  folly's  sandy  waste ; 
And  gilded  dome  and  ornamenting  arts 
By  far  outshine  the  worth  of  Christian  hearts : 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


Tl 


For  style  and  guilt  now  fill  the  cushioned  pew 
To  whom  the  ushers  bow  attendance  to — 
While  there  the  stranger  in  the  threadbare  coat 
Tliey  scarce  observe  ;  and  strikingly  remote, 
And  almost  turned  away,  he  leaves  the  place 
With  loss  of  faith  and  many  a  step  from  grace. 
And  this  is  where  we  see  our  god-like  ways 
When  pride  and  fashion  rule  our  Sabbath  days ! 

Where  church  and  morals  take  the  downward 
course, 

Who  doubts  that  other  factors  feel  the  force  ? 

For  politics  is  here  with  rapid  gait 

When  cunning  schemers  hold  a  country's  fate — 

And  most  like  wolves  disturb  the  common  good — 

By  howling  fraud  in  every  party-hood  : 

And  thus,  attracted  by  their  swelling  throats, 

They  so  deceive  and  catch  our  honest  votes, 

That  often  we  our  interests  throw  away, 

Or  see  too  late  the  politician's  way. 

But  did  the  people  know  their  mighty  strength, — 

Such  acts  would  find  a  cause  too  long  in  length — 

In  which  deceitful  tricks  would  fail  in  aim 

And  every  step  would  be  our  country's  gain. 

And  now  monopolies  at  every  hand  ! 
With  gain  their  bent  devour  the  yielding  land, — 
Or  so  arrange  their  crafty  ruling  schemes. 
That  needy  people  swell  their  ample  means  : 
And  everywhere  their  stately  mansions  rise 


72 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


That  well  predict  the  gaining  enterprise — 
While  hard  oppressed  tiie  toiler  of  the  day 
Must  yield  to  want  and  work  for  little  pay  ; — 
And  able  scarce  to  earn  the  needful  bread 
Full  oft  his  children  hungry  go  to  bed  : 
And  sleep,  forgetful  of  their  early  cares, 
For  God's  sweet  sleep  is  not  confined  to  shares. 
'Twere  little  thus  the  toiling  poor  would  find 
If  syndicates  controlled  this  rest  to  mind  ; 
But  far  above  their  vulture-like  desire 
It  reigns  supreme  where  purer  thoughts  inspire  ! 
And  yields  a  peace  the  world  cannot  bestow, 
The  greatest  gift  that  man  can  have  below. 

And  look,  inventive  themes  by  legions  rise 
That  crush  the  poor  while  still  the  wealthy  thrive ; 
And  note  that  most  of  these  improving  schemes 
Are  brought  to  light  by  those  of  lacking  means  : 
And  slow  disposed  for  merest  bagatelle 
While  companies  arise  with  capital ; 
And  pomp  and  wealth  denote  the  holder's  gain 
While  weak  inscription  gives  the  maker's  name. 
And  every  trade  is  so  demoralized 
By  giving  schemes,  by  dealers  advertised, 
That  the  humble  merchant  with  little  means, 
From  active  business  moves  to  other  scenes; 
For  now  no  longer  can  he  hold  his  own 
Against  the  rocks  of  competition  blown — 
And  what  we  call  the  very  sap  of  trade 
For  many  a  merchant  a  grave  has  made. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


73 


Is  this  where  civilization  points  the  way, 
Or  greed  for  wealth  controls  with  grasping 
sway? 

Now  such  and  more  make  up  our  weany  times 
As  well  as  wordy  thoughts  and  jarring  rhymes  ; 
'Tis  true  that  poetry  is  in  decline 
And  literature  succeeds  where  weapons  shine ! 
While  critics,  with  the  new  self-feeding  quill 
Still  point  to  lays  of  Mother  Goose's  skill — 
And  deaf  to  cries  except  of  silly  type 
The  world  lets  go  just  where  it  should  be  tight ; 
And  quite  neglected,  merit  sinks  away 
Forgotten  at  night,  belittled  by  day  ! 
Eternal  love  !  for  those  to  honor  bound 
"Who  fill  their  trusts  on  conscientious  ground, 
And  are  not  moved  by  rabble's  erring  sway, 
For  truth  will  come  to  light,  as  night  to  day. 


OTHER  DAYS. 

I  stand  again  upon  the  shore 

Where  rumbling  falls  the  heaving  bay  ; — 
And  since  I've  heard  these  waters  roar 

A  swift  decade  has  passed  away. 

A  swift  decade  of  flying  years 

Has  swept  across  tliis  restless  deep  ; — 

Since  I  along  these  rocky  piers 

Have  seen  the  gathering  billows  sweep. 


74 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Again,  the  sound  of  gurgling  tide 

My  willing  thoughts  with  rapture  fill ; — 

And  as  the  breakers  near  me  glide 
1  feel  the  same  familiar  thrill. 

'Twas  here  when  hard  oppressed  I'd  stroll 
And  leave  my  load  upon  the  way  ; — 

For  here  beside  the  breakers'  roll 

My  cares  seemed  like  the  foaming  spray. 

And  oft  along  tlie  foam-flecked  strand 
I've  met  some  little  ones  at  play  ; — • 

And  writing  names  upon  the  sand 

They'd  laugh  at  mine  they  couldn't  say  ! 

And  from  yon  high  and  craggy  cliff 
I've  watched  the  ships  file  out  to  sea ; — 

And  seen  the  breezes  freshening  stiff, 
Full  speed  them  on  in  company. 

But  noWj  alone,  unknown  I  stand. 

My  crowding  thoughts  I  cannot  keep; — 

For  time  and  years  these  days  have  spread 
As  ships  upon  the  widening  deep. 


THE  POOR-HOUSE  TOOK  HIS  MOTHER. 

Just  in  tlie  rear  of  dismal  court 

Where  towering  buildings  cast  their  shade  ; 
On  feeble  shanties  cropping  forth 

In  which  the  sun  scarce  ever  strayed. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


Behind  tliese  walls  of  cheerless  gray 
AYithin  a  room  of  wretclied  state, 

An  old  and  feeble  woman  lay, 

Benumbed  by  cold,  bestarved  by  fate. 

With  lips  now  sealed  by  palsied  stroke 

She  helpless  lies  upon  a  bed, 
Where  gnawing  rats  with  crowding  choke 

Have  made  her  stricken  flesh  their  bread  ;- 
And  thus  still  breathing  she  is  found. 

Then  moved  to  house  across  the  way 
Where  little  more  than  hers  abound 

Behind  these  walls  of  massive  gray. 

Her  life  has  been  a  bitter  war 

To  check  starvation  in  its  sway  ; — 
A  meagre  crust  tlie  most  she  saw 

From  rising  morn  to  closing  day  : 
Behind  these  walls  there  left  alone 

By  son  with  money  in  the  bank 
Who  married  one  of  higher  tone. 

With  whom  his  mother  could  not  rank  ! 

Her  fate  has  stirred  the  court-yard  square 

And  visitors  full  thick  arrive — • 
Who  block  the  way  with  curious  stare 

Or  ask  if  she  is  still  alive  ? 
While  from  their  midst  with  pompous  mien 

A  man  ascends  the  narrow  stair, 
And  giving  orders  plainly  seen, 

Suggests  for  her  the  pauper's  care  I 


76 


HKRR  CHERRYTREE'S 


But  needins:  more  tlian  beo^o^ar's  share 

She  lingered  scarce  till  closing  day; 
And  left  lier  life  of  weary  care 

For  rest,  where  grieiless  paupers  lay — 
Perhaps  her  son  will  sometimes  think 

For  thoughts  will  not  always  smother, 
That  when  he  left  her  at  death's  brink. 

The  poor-house  tooh  Jus  mother  ! 


THE  CITY  BANK. 

The  city  bank  is  running  short, 

And  figures  tell  a  lie  ; — 
Tlie  streets  are  filled  with  wliisp'ring  talk 

A  banker's  living  high  ! 

The  sharers,  thev  are  losing  faith 
In  one  they  placed  their  trust ; — 

A  meeting  comes  but  just  too  late, 
The  bank  can  only  bust ! 

The  sun  breaks  in  on  palace  home. 

The  banker's  in  the  jail  ! 
While  wife  and  children  they  can  moan 

And  face  the  shameful  tale. 

But  wait,  they'll  let  him  out  again 
And  hush  this  awful  steal  ; — 

For  thinofs  will  take  a  bri^-hter  vein 
AVhen  banker  states  his  deal ! 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


77 


Behold  !  they  talk  of  compromise. 

The  hanker  now  goes  free  ; — 
And  banks  are  sure  to  meet  a  rise 

When  thieves  again  agree. 

The  news  has  reached  the  poor  man's  home, 
And  chills  the  evening  meal ; — 

His  thoughts  are  centered  on  his  own, 
lie  fears  the  coming  deal. 

And  to  the  poor  the  banks  run  short 

Witli  them  the  figures  lie  ; — 
For  thev  must  pay  where  bankers  sport 

And  keep  them  living  high ! 


I  WAS  A  MILLIONAIRE. 

I  once  became  a  millionaire 

With  grand  estates  and  palaces  ; — 
And  quite  enough  of  worldly  share 

In  equipage  and  carriages : 
I  owned  the  finest  palace  car 

That  ever  rolled  o'er  glistening  rail ; — 
I  had  the  swiftest  yacht  by  far 

That  ever  spread  or  furled  a  sail. 

I  had  my  cooks  and  butler,  too. 
Imported  from  the  royal  isle  ; — 

For  me  xVmericans  wouldn't  do, 
I  liked  the  great  ancestral  style : 


78 


HERR  CHERRYTREES 


My  pretty  maids  and  valets  came 
From  crowded  courts  of  euiinence, 

My  money  quickly  gave  me  fame 
I  needed  them  as  evidence. 

I  gave  my  banquets  and  my  hops 

At  which  the  gay  elite  would  shine  ; — 
And  get  quite  full  with  gadding  fops 

By  sitting  long  at  sj^arkling  wine  ; — 
I  had  my  truly  blooded  mare 

That  entered  every  steeple  chase, 
And  brought  me  in  a  goodly  share 

When  figured  in  a  winning  race. 

I  visited  the  other  side 

And  went  among  the  ruling  squibs ; — 
'Twas  here  I  found  my  royal  bride 

And  won  her  heart  with  crowning  fibs : 
I  married  in  the  greatest  style 

With  honeymoon  on  foreign  land — 
And  when  I  came  back  to  the  isle 

I  felt  the  grasp  of  every  hand. 

They  wanted  me  in  parliament 

To  re-arrange  their  reigning  laws  ; — 
But  I  preferred  the  continent 

And  left  them  to  adjust  their  flaws ; 
And  after  many  fond  adieus 

We  saw  the  land  slip  out  of  sight, 
Which  gave  my  wife  the  worst  of  blues 

And  brought  her  little  rest  that  night. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY, 


79 


But  on  the  morn  she  seemed  quite  well, 

And  throu^^h  the  many  pleasant  days, 
We  watched  the  ocean's  ceaseless  swell 

And  felt  its  grand  majestic  sways. 
But  soon  we  sighted  native  shores, 

My  friends  were  quick  to  board  the  ship, 
My  wife  was  kissed  by  many  scores, 

And  all  I  heard  was  of  the  trip. 

At  eve  a  grand  reception  came. 

The  papers  teemed  with  selling  news  ; — 
And  in  the  columns  of  the  same 

I  there  appeared  in  artist's  views : 
And  thus  I  lived  in  grandest  style 

I  made  the  town  a  princely  gift, 
But  here  I  have  to  add  a  smile. 

For  scenes  must  now  by  changes  shift. 

For  every  cat  will  have  its  night, 

The  grandest  dream  its  breaking  morn; — 
And  so  my  thoughts  had  taken  flight 

From  out  the  little  end  the  horn  ; — 
And  daylight  came  to  room  quite  bare 

Wherein  I  dreamed,  wherein  I  woke ! 
Indeed,  I  was  no  millionaire, 

In  fact,  I  really  was  dead-hroke  ! 


80 


HERE  CHERRYTREE'S 


WELCOME. 

There's  a  motto  framed  and  hanging 
In  a  room  just  o'er  the  way, 

And  the  worsted  work  has  meaning, 
Though  it  cannot  "  welcome  "  say. 

"  Welcome  "  is  the  word  that's  woven 
In  the  frame  just  o'er  the  door, 

And  the  sunlit  window  open 
Throws  it  shadow  on  the  floor. 

The  little  nymph  now  a  sleeping 
On  the  bed  so  clean  and  white, 

Is" the  wisdom  and  the  meaning 
Of  the  motto  I  would  write. 

My  kisses  are  with  her  slumbering 
On  those  lips  so  shapely  sweet, 

And  the  snowy  sheets  lie  crumpling 
At  the  dainty  dimpled  feet. 

Can  it  be  of  me  she's  thinking 
In  the  twilight  of  her  dream. 
How  marked  and  plain  the  meaning 
Of  the  motto  I  have  seen. 

For  she  came  in  days  of  sadness, 
I  had  long  been  out  of  work. 

But  she  filled  our  home  with  gladness 
With  her  cunning  little  chirp. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


81 


And  she  pays  with  love  and  kisses, 
'Twas  by  this  our  liearts  she  won, 

Slie  has  Mama's  golden  tresses 
And  Daddy's  little  "  welcome  "  ! 


THEIR  COURTSHIP. 

The  funniest  little  courtship 

That  ever  anybody  saw, 
You  may  talk  of  love  and  friendship 

But  this  was  first  a  common  jaw ; 
Now  they  first  became  acquainted 

Behind  the  bars  with  prison  rife  : 
And  too  it  was  intimated 

That  they  were  sentenced  there  for  life. 

But  this  did  not  seem  to  fret  them 

I  never  heard  them  heave  a  sigh ; 
Though  escape  tliey  could  and  often, 

I  never  saw  them  even  try  : 
Yet  w^ien  poor  Pete  he  spoke  of  love 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  lier  eyes, 
I  know  he  wished  himself  above 

A  roost  just  nearer  to  the  skies. 

You  may  talk  about  the  eagle. 
And  all  the  fury  it  can  boast ; 

'Twas  a  jews-harp  to  a  bugle, 
Or  a  Hamlet  to  a  Gliost ! 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


Anon,  tliey  took  a  different  turn, 
And  kisses  filled  the  dullest  ears; 

If  ever  lieart  got  its  return 

It  came  in  this  tlie  maiden's  fears. 

And  Cupid  won  by  faultless  aim 

For  prisoners  tliej  were  in  truth, 
And  bound  each  other's  heart  became 

As  fast  as  in  the  prison  booth  ; — 
While  now  behind  the  shading  bars 

They  talk  of  having  babies. 
For  such  oft  leads  from  family  jars 

In  courtships  of  canaries  ! 


DYII^G  ALONE. 
Passing  away  ! 

Within  the  gloom  of  squalid  home, 
A  worn  and  wearied  woman  lay ; — 
Waiting  for  death,  waiting  alone ! 

Dying  alone  ! 

Without  one  little  word  of  cheer ; — 
With  feet  alike  the  coldest  stone 
And  now  another  night  is  near. 

Dying  for  bread ! 

Within  the  sound  of  Christian  ears ; — 
Without  a  hand  to  hold  her  head 
Or  wipe  away  lier  choking  tears. 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


Dying  at  last ! 

Wliile  lingers  now  one  feeble  spark  ; — 

A  little  quiver,  all  is  past ! 

Her  soul  has  left  the  room  so  dark. 

Now  stiff  and  cold  ! 
Within  the  shade  of  churchy  gray  ; — 
And  none  will  close  her  lips  and  fold 
Those  arms  of  weary  working  clay. 

Kotten  and  foul ! 

The  nose  of  human  aid  is  keen  ; — 
And  but  for  this  and  tenant's  growl, 
She'd  been  the.re  noio,  for  all  I've  seen 

But  found  at  last ! 

She's  borne  like  beast  to  hiding  grave 
Her  lonely  death  repeats  the  past 
That  man  neglects,  but  God  will  save 


A  LIKELIHOOD. 

The  river  runs  beneath  my  feet, 
The  waters  sparkle  in  the  sun  ; — 

With  me  my  days  are  quite  as  fleet 
As  on  the  stream  of  time  they  run — 

A  humble  birth,  the  merest  start, 
And  soon  I  reached  the  river's  side ; 

A  little  light  the  darker  part 

And  now  among  the  surges  glide. 


HERR  CHERRYTREKS 


And  through  the  bridge  I'll  wliirl  at  last 
Quite -worn  with  froth  and  foam  of  time 

For  in  the  waters  sweeping  past 
I  see  a  fate  resembling  mine. 


ROCKS. 

I  sit  in  my  old  rocking  chair 
And  write  my  poetry  prose  ; — 

I  meet  my  share  of  worldly  care 
And  like  my  seedy  clothes. 

I  see  in  my  old  rocking  chair 
The  eyes  of  envy  green  ; — 

I  find  my  friends  have  quite  a  share 
Of  this  the  common  spleen. 

I  hear  in  my  old  rocking  chair 
My  songs  have  scarce  a  sale ; — 

I  turn  to  jest  the  feeble  scare 
And  jibe  the  flapping  tale. 

I  rock  in  my  old  rocking  chair 
At  close  of  toilsome  day  : 

And  watch  my  critics  pulling  hair, 
While  I  rock  on  and  say, 

I'll  keep  my  old  rocking  chair. 
My  wife  and  dog  are  mine  ; — 

I've  rocked  a  lot  of  weary  care 
Asleep  in  simple  rhyme. 


PROSE  AND  POKTRY. 


85 


I'll  sing  in  my  old  rocking  chair 
The  songs  that  seldom  sell ; — 

I'll  give  the  world  my  meagre  sliare, 
And  let  the  ages  tell. 


A  CANDIDATE. 

A  howling  wolf  is  at  the  door, 
With  cries  of  "  Let  me  in  !  " 

The  greed  of  office  is  his  gore 
Ilis  aim  is  but  to  win. 

He  bloats  the  town  with  speeches  red 
And  dictates  for  our  gain  ; — 

Four  years  ago  he  turned  and  said 
'Twas  for  the  very  same. 

He  changed  our  votes  where'er  he  could 

By  fair  and  scaly  means  ; — 
He  gave  them  work  who  ever  would 

Support  his  selfish  themes. 

And  now  he  hopes  for  needed  aid 
From  those  he  tried  to  crush  ; — 

If  this  is  what  the  party's  made 
I  feel  the  staining  blush  ! 

But  when  men  come  to  cast  their  vote 
And  howl  still  marks  the  door — 

May  righteous  acts  their  course  promote 
For  wolves  come  back  for  more. 


86 


HERR  CHERRYTREE'S 


DEATH. 

O,  Death,  tlion  good  Samaritan, 

Heedless  of  either  sex  or  clan, 
Thou  giv'st  to  all  a  better  aid 

Than  either  earth  or  life  persuade. 

Best  physician,  of  ablest  skill. 

Thy  cure  bespeaks  no  boding  ill ; — 

Though  sweets  may  oft  neglect  the  draught 
Its  bitterness  is  with  the  thought. 

Thou  fiend  !  and  in  no  better  light 
To  those  who  act  with  equal  right ; — 

But  messenger  of  love  divine. 

To  tliose  who  hold  thy  God,  is  mine ! 


ORATORS,  VIA  SORE-HEADS. 

I'm  a  sore-headed  orator 

Without  any  fame  ; — 
For  the  bump  is  the  factor 

As  I  will  explain  : — 
I've  always  longed  for  the  stage 

But  what  if  I  should  squawk, 
And  you  know  'tis  all  the  rage 

To  just  get  up  and  talk. 

I'm  a  sore- headed  orator 

With  great  political  views, 
Big  deals  for  my  repertoire 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


87 


Town  gossip  for  my  news  ; — 
I  could  make  a  grand  discourse 

If  I  only  got  a  start, 
For  as  a  matter  of  course 

I  come  from  the  State  they're  smart. 

I'm  a  sore-headed  orator 

Of  pugilistic  fame  ; — 
I'm  down  on  keeping  order 

And  I've  a  terrible  name — 
I  should  have  spoken  long  ago 

I  have  had  many  a  chance  ; — 
I  use  to  run  a  sparring  show 

And  end  with  a  social  dance. 

I'm  a  sore-headed  orator 

And  I  detest  to  see, 
Those  who  can  do  the  actor 

When  'tis  too  much  for  me  • — 
For  how  small  it  makes  me  feel 

When  seeing  what  I  lack, 
But  I'm  sure  to  lose  the  deal 

If  fortune  cuts  the  pack. 

I'm  a  sore-headed  orator 

In  the  very  worst  line, 
And  I  hiss  any  performer 

Even  locally  fine  ; — 
For  I  hate  music  and  wit 

If  to  elevate  it  aims, 


88 


PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


And  I  will  have  none  of  it 
Because  I  liave'nt  the  brains. 

The  sore-headed  orator 

Is  hecoming  quite  thick,  , 
And  thougli  a  dandy  performer 

lie  is  always  too  sick  ; — • 
But  if  wind  did  the  talking 

And  parrots  made  the  words, 
We  would  soon  hear  a  squawking 

Like  the  common  green  birds. 


